


Warded

by prettylittlepetticoats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Hermione Granger-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Magic, POV Hermione Granger, Pain, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlepetticoats/pseuds/prettylittlepetticoats
Summary: Hermione watches Draco, and Draco watches Hermione. In the middle of the war Draco earned his protection, and Hermione has the job of protector. Silence turns to watching, turns to words, turns to something more /ONESHOT
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Warded

**Author's Note:**

> my first hp fic on this siteee, also please excuse my authors notes that make me look illiterate, that is not how my stories look I promise ;-; 
> 
> love this couple, and I thought this'd be an interesting concept, hope you enjoy! pls let me know if you do. 
> 
> songrecs: the scientist, coldplay

He stares at her.

She can feel it, around the house they're both decreed to stay in. She can feel his eyes on her. She can almost feel his expression clawing beneath her skin, eating into her until it reaches the final layer. It is an expression of curiosity, uncertainty, and a million other things she can't identify, nor is she sure she wants to. It makes her nervous, it makes her feel as though something is going to happen, as though at this moment they are both waiting, anticipating, and they both know something is going to happen soon, something she is unsure of, and he too. It feels like they are in limbo, just waiting, waiting endlessly.

The house often feels oppressive, like the four walls are closing in, but she knows that's normal, expected even. This is the only place he can stay, the only place where the wards were layered enough by Dumbledore that even Voldemort can't track down his wayward new recruit, as long as he stays between the rickety cottage walls, never straying further than the garden line. This is the only place he is safe until the war is over. He's stuck here. Dumbledore had always been a brilliant wizard and the wards were a testament to that; even the most powerful man alive, the Dark Lord and magic most evil couldn't find them here, no one could. He's stuck here for that reason.

And so is she.

Harry had figured it all out, when he had found the once arrogant Slytherin prefect, now pale and reduced to almost nothing shivering in the fifth-floor bathroom. Harry had realised when he had seen the dark mark slashed across the pale haired boys’ arm, no attempt to even hide it. Harry had seen the look in Draco's eyes; the desperation, anger, loathing, despair, hatred, but all overwhelmed with fear, pure fear that had chilled even the bravest of Gryffindors. Even when Draco had fired a cruciatus, Harry had realised this boy who he had convinced was the enemy, was just a victim, nothing more than that, a victim caught in the horrible crossfire of war. Just as he was the Boy Who Lived, Draco was the Boy who had no choice … until Harry had given him one that was.

And so, a hop, skip and a jump later, and Draco, once the newest wizard in Voldemort's pack of Death Eater's, was an Order refugee, taken in, pumped for information and then protected, protected at all costs for the information he had given. Even those who despised him had felt for him, had begrudgingly agreed he had earned protection, considering all he had risked. For even after he had spilled his soul to Dumbledore, begged for protection and sobbed at the Headmasters desk until he could barely speak for crying, he had gone back to Voldemort's side once more, just one more time. He had gone to rescue his Mother, the one person he loved in this world, but not just that. It had been more than a simple rescue mission, he too had risked infiltrating his masters mind, for he had always been exceptional at Occulmency, and Legilimency had come easy to him. He had managed a few seconds in Voldemorts mind before he had disappeared with a crack of apparation, his Mother clutched to him, his Father watching wide eyed and horrified, but ultimately left behind. Voldemort's furious face was the last thing he saw before he landed at Grimmauld place in a heap, clutching his head and screaming.

He had screamed for days after his foray into Voldemorts mind.

Then had come the logistics. Grimmauld place hadn't been safe. For Narcissa? Yes. For Draco? Marked and branded? No. And so Dumbledore had come up with a plan. A visit to her late Grandmother's house later, he had put every ward under the sun over it, tied them to her and only her before placing Draco there, with a promise to stabilize the wards and release her from them as soon as he could.

But then he had died, and Draco, a protected member of the Order now had nowhere else to go. And so as Harry and Ron had ventured out on the Horcrux hunt alone, the golden trio reduced to two she had remained behind, she sobbed as they left her, cried and wailed, but had agreed; Draco deserved to be protected, and for the wards to remain, so must she. They had all tried to replicate the wards after Dumbledore had died, tried to make them independent of her, but had failed. Dumbledore's temporary solution, choosing her for it was her late Grandmother's house, was now a permanent one, the wards were tied to her in every way. For Draco to remain hidden then she had to stay with him, to keep the wards from collapsing, as they would if she left past the garden line. And so, she must, for Draco had earned their protection, time and time again for his split act of bravery in the Malfoy drawing room.

After all, not only had he defied his master in one last show of gall, stupidity, bravery and a desperation to strengthen his position, but no, much more than that ...

He had found where the Diadem was hidden.

He hadn't even been looking for it, had only delved into the Dark Lords mind to try and learn something, anything useful to protect him and his Mother, to ensure the Order kept their promise of refuge. He hadn't even realised what he had stumbled on before he had described it to Dumbledore and Harry, behind closed doors and every privacy spell known to man at Grimmauld Place. He hadn't even known what he had plucked from Voldemort's mind until he had been told, and then for the first time in months he had smiled, he had let out a sob and smiled, for he knew then they would not turn him away. His Mother was sent abroad, to a Black property halfway across the globe where she'd be safe and tucked away, warded to the hilt too. But him? Traceable by the dirty mark on his arm? He was placed in a dingy little cottage in the Scottish Highlands, with her presence ensuring the wards would stop anyone finding him, including his former master.

And so, for the past month they had lived in a tentative peace. They had barely spoken, he spent most of his time sitting on the wall at the bottom of the garden, his feet hanging over the edge, but never crossing past the burnt ring in the grass that indicated the edge of the wards. She spent most of her time in the one bedroom, researching everything about Horcruxes, Voldemort's past, and sending it to Harry and Ron, her speaking patronus now her most common spell as she sent it over and over again, her one small link to the boys whom she missed so very much. They kept a tentative peace somehow.

They barely spoke to one another, and yet she could feel him watching her. When she made them dinner and he spoke a gentle thanks, she could feel him watching her as they ate. When they both curled up on chairs in front of the fire as a gale blew outside and a lack of electricity meant no central heating she could feel him watching her by firelight. When she weeded the flower beds and he trimmed the grass she could feel him watching her. His grey eyes followed her all too often, and it made her feel nervous. It often had her running for the sanctuary of her bedroom, hiding away from those knowing eyes, often curious and nervous all at the same time. As it was what the eyes said that made her more skittish than his continued gaze; for when had Draco Malfoy ever been nervous? Why was his gaze nervous?

Yet she knew she watched him too. As he lazily flicked his wand to wash the dishes, she watched him. As he often forwent the sofa to lie in the grass, eyes on the sky and the stars she watched him from her window. When he became absorbed in a book on the couch, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows, the one small imperfection on his otherwise perfect face, she watched him across the top of her page. She knew she was as guilty as he for watching him, studying him, and she often imagined her expression was a mirror of his; intrigued and yet nervous.

But neither said anything of it, like if they refused to acknowledge it then it wasn't really happening. If they continued to stare but neither questioned it or accused then it wasn't a concern. It was natural, she knew that, after all in this small space they only had one another. The cottage was sparse, and she was just glad she'd packed so many books for there was nothing else to do. There was no one else around, the next property almost two miles away. Neither could leave, they relied on the provisions that appeared in the garden once a week, sent over by an Order member. They were hidden away here, in the highlands, where her Grandmother had gone to retire, always preferring her solitude to people. And so Hermione knew it was normal for her and Draco to observe one another, to be curious about one another, to watch each other. It made sense, for other than the books she had packed, the chores they undertook and sleep, there was very little else to do.

And in this house, they were the only things that changed. The stone walls, the tartan blankets, the plants that Hermione seemed to kill but Draco somehow coaxed back to life, they were all so static. At least her and Draco moved, they spoke (if only a little), they changed. Draco watched as her hair curled harder in the oppressive Scottish rain. Hermione watched as his once gelled back blonde locks began to fall over his eyes. Draco watched as Hermione wore an endless number of ratty jumpers with her wand tucked inside. Hermione watched as Draco wore the same black jumpers every day, though he tucked his wand in as well. They watched one another for in this place there was little else to do and to see the changes that they displayed.

At least Hermione often watched Draco for that reason, she wasn't sure about the other way around. Hermione observed the once arrogant, self-assured bully, now quiet, contemplative and polite. She watched the Draco Malfoy she had known melt away. Sure, once or twice he had flashed a smirk that reminded her of the toerag she had punched, and the way he walked always spoke of his confidence, but otherwise he was not the man she remembered. He was a lot quieter for one, and when he did speak to her he was unfailingly polite. He didn't seem prejudiced anymore, or at least he was better at hiding it. She wasn't sure. Once they had even brushed hands over drying the dishes and he hadn't so much as flinched, hadn't seemed to care. Had he changed? Or was he simply pretending? Scared the Order would throw him out on his ass if he disrespected her?

Not that she saw much of the Order nowadays. Everyone kept their distance, not intentionally she knew, but they did all the same. Everyone was busy, preparing for war. Hermione liked to keep herself busy as well, training a few hours a day, in the garden, firing spell after spell to keep her defences and abilities strong. Just once she'd asked Draco to join her, and it was the one time he'd shot her a scathing look before turning and marching into the house. She never saw him train, never saw him practice. She knew he kept his wand at his side, but he rarely used it now. She wondered why but she didn't ask.

And so their little dance continued on and on. They watched one another, spoke a few bare but polite words over dinner or chores, but otherwise they ignored one another with everything except their eyes. They watched in silence, brushed hands once or twice and Draco didn't flinch and that was all.

* * *

Until one month later, the peace they had achieved changed, changed quickly. For they had achieved some kind of peace, a gentle peace in which they watched and stared in silence. It was kind of nice Hermione had realised, it was nice to bask in the silence, to be able to sit on chairs opposite one another and focus on their own thoughts and readings. It was nice not to have to fill the empty space with words like she often did with Harry and Ron. It was nice to simply be at peace. She had realised with almost a laugh that Draco made for good company. He didn't force conversation on her, he was happy to sit with his nose in a book for hours on end, and yet if she started a conversation he answered, and always added something to the conversation, not just empty words.  
And they did speak more than before. Words now were traded in the evenings as they read. He'd ask her some obscure questions about a book she'd read, and she'd ask him one back. He'd suggest something controversial about magical theory and she'd immediately question it. It was only a couple of sentences traded back and forth over the fire, or once under the stars as they sat outside on an unusually warm Scottish day. They couldn't be called conversations, they weren't long enough, not really. He'd question her knowledge on a certain topic, she'd ask to read the book he had once he was done with it, he'd debate a potions brew they had both learned at school, she'd ask about a particular transfiguration message. It was only ever a couple of sentences ... except for the last one, just days before...

"Of course, you've read a weird archaic book on pureblood laws and customs. Lord Eckleworths Guide to the Perfect Wife, why am I not surprised you'd read such drivel" He had said with a roll of his eyes and a hint of a glare in her direction. "You would" The eye roll she understood, the glare she did not, and shot back her own one before replying.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She said back, on the defensive, as she always was when her interest in learning was mocked, something she was used to but would never accept. It was almost disappointing, as Draco had never questioned her thirst for knowledge, he had it too she had noticed.

"As in only pureblood housewife's and you would read such a thing" He said almost scoffing then which just made her feel more defensive.

"It's important to read about history" She had said with a glare. In truth the book had been awful, made her skin crawl and she hadn't been able to finish it, but she wasn't going to admit that now was she?

"History? Then read about the goblin wars or the 17th century witch trials, don't read some muck written by a man who'd like to burn you at the stake because of your blood status" He had said with a shake of his head, his gaze back on his own book now, as though the conversation was closed. That was something he did that annoyed her, and one way he hadn't changed. He was still far too dismissive of views that weren't his own, and she hated that more than any other negative trait he could show. He always thought he was right and scoffed at any opinion that contradicted that, it drove her mental.

"Wouldn't you have that in common?" She had snapped back, annoyed at losing the argument but also annoyed that Draco Malfoy was trying to lecture her on what authors to read. It was a snippy thing to say, considering the peace they had achieved, and yet it was out before she could stop it.

And that made his gaze snap up to hers, his eyes bone chilling, so much so that she almost felt herself shiver, even as the heat of the fire warmed her.

"If you still think I have a problem with your blood then maybe you are as stupid as that awful book would suggest muggle-borns are" His voice cold. That was worse than him raising it, but that was one thing she had learned about Draco Malfoy. When he got angry he didn't explode to rage and yelling like her, no. When Draco was angry his tone went hard, his voice quiet, as it was now. He glared at her with a freezing fury, and she couldn't even bring it in her to glare back. That was a major difference between them. When she grew angry it was all fire and heat, when he grew angry it was ice and a chill.

Instead she had gone to speak, to question what he meant, had he really gotten over his prejudice against her blood? But in the next second he had swept out of the room, into the back garden; evidently he had decided to sleep under the stars that night. Hermione had been tempted to follow him, but she knew from the slam of the door and the complicated privacy bubble he erected around himself as he marched outside that she was not welcome.

It had been there first long conversation and it had ended in an argument. Hermione almost hadn't been surprised, and had shuffled off to bed that night with the words ringing in her mind. She had felt bad, even though she knew she shouldn't; he had always hated her because of her blood status, why should she think it was any different now? Sure, they had achieved a peace, they watched each other and traded a handful of sentences a day, but that didn't mean anything.

Did it?

With that question at the forefront of her mind the next day Hermione went to apologise and also demand an explanation about his anger but before she could even get the words out Draco had told her not to bother, and they had gone back to the fragile peace of before, for Hermione hadn't even been able to push it before Draco had stalked outside to sit on the wall, back to ignoring her thoroughly. This time though it felt more tense, closer to shattering and falling apart if either of them said or did the wrong thing. It didn't feel as peaceful anymore, but rather it felt tense, like they were in the eye of the storm, waiting for the winds and rain to hit.

And just days later the peace did shatter, the storm hit through no fault fell at either of their doors.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and pls let me know if you did! also keep an eye out for other hp fics, I do love the verse.


End file.
